And One To Make You Believe
by Corporate Voyeur
Summary: Volleyball games and hot summer nights make for some interesting conclusions. Ice/Mav.


San Diego afternoons have been called 'scorchers' and 'hot ones' by the weathermen in the air-conditioned atmosphere of the newsroom.

"Shoo-ee, great balls of fire! It's hotter than hell out here!" Goose eloquently exclaimed.

But for those out in the thick of it, 'hotter than hell' works just fine.

Pete Mitchell grinned at his vocal R.I.O. from behind his sunglasses. An impromptu game of beach volleyball had been formed out of boredom between Maverick and Goose and the notorious Iceman and his own R.I.O., Slider. But it had morphed into something more.

In more ways than one.

The friendly game between the four men had quickly become serious and competitive, which was no surprise. The pilots were always to outshoot each other in everything they did.

However, whenever Tom Kazansky served the ball, it always ended up streaming over the net like a comet, headed straight for Maverick. He had no trouble popping the ball up to Goose, who would set it in an arc across the bright sky. Mitchell would leap up for a stellar kill and send the ball screaming down to the hot sand.

And that kind of placement harassment didn't hold a candle to the looks that Pete would catch from Tom at times when he had to dive in the sand for a tricky shot. He'd stand himself up again, panting and sandy and was met with that hungry glare from the other pilot at Maverick's rather graceful falls. Ice would cock an eyebrow and purse his lips _just so _whilst effortlessly spinning the ball on one finger. He'd then lob the ball up and flex that body of his and connect with a sharp _whap!_ and the whole charade would start again.

But the even stranger part was that Maverick wouldn't have noticed any of this if he didn't constantly have an eye on Kazansky himself. It was, in short, a two-way street.

A very suggestive and all but covert one-way street.

* * *

After a day of sitting in class and listening to Charlie's lectures, Tom Kazansky was antsy and restless. The volleyball game was a welcome stress reliever, if not for the pilot on the other side of the net. Maverick.

Ever since his night at the pub, Ice had been even more sensitive and edgy when it came to Mitchell. Ice would sneak glances at him in class, not appearing too obvious, but still apparent. And he sometimes caught Maverick already looking at him; eyes piercing and questioning at the same time. When that happened, Ice's heart rate would pick up and he'd silently curse himself for being so girly about it all.

The volleyball game, however, could not have been more timely. Tom had been looking for an outlet for all this frustration, and the scorching day had provided an opportunity. Ice had always been proud of his serve and with good reason too. He was infamous in flight school for that searing overhand that few could return, much less walk away without massive purple bruises on their forearms. So he kept firing his shots into Maverick's area, growing increasingly interested when Pete had to dive for a shot, jeans riding low on that toned lion's body, clinging to every curve of his legs.

Then he'd make a show of getting up and dusting off, high-fiving Goose, and having the nerve to throw a hot glance over his shoulder at Ice as he retreated to his corner of the court. And it continued just about that same way for the rest of the day, until the sun was climbing down from her lofty perch and descending to her western chambers, casting a sultry golden glow over the coast.

It was at this time, a couple of hours after the last game's conclusion, that Tom Kazansky had decided to take a walk down the sidewalk of a street on which a certain Pete Mitchell just _happened _to have rented a small beach house. Ice didn't want to end up there, _(lie)_, but hey, he just went where his feet led him.

And his feet just happened to bring him right to Maverick's doorstep. What a small world.

He pressed the doorbell, and as he heard the echo of the tones, he wondered what he would do if Charlie answered the door. Tom didn't want to think about what-

But then he was cut short with the opening of the door.

"Oh, it's you, Ice," Maverick himself said, his dark brown hair tousled and half-dry and blue eyes all bright and shining in the light of the sunset. He had on a loose grey t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Classic.

"Yep," Tom replied, "I was just out for a walk and thought I'd drop by."

Pete lit up into a kind smile and opened the door wider. "Yeah, sure, come on in."

_Bingo, I'm good, _Ice thought as he followed Maverick through the opening hall and into the living room. It was surprisingly clean and spartan but quaint. Ice settled on a couch while Pete opened a refrigerator in the kitchen, and removed a couple cans of good ol' beer.

As he walked back into the living room, he set a can on the low table in front of Ice and sat next to him on the couch with his own open can, hunching forward slightly with his elbows resting on his knees. The grey shirt Maverick was wearing stretched taut over his back, outlining his powerful structure of muscle in tight definition. Tom had to take a steadying drink from his beverage at that sight. Then Pete spoke.

"So, what's your deal?"

Ice nearly choked on his drink. He composed himself enough to choke out, "My deal? What's your deal, Mitchell?"

Maverick turned his accusing blue eyes on Iceman. "You were trying to kill me at the games today. Don't think I didn't notice how all of your serves ended up coming straight to me,"

Tom snorted in mock amusement, but he was freezing up inside. "You're overreacting, I just play to win. You should know that, Mitchell." He cocked his head to the smaller pilot and smiled crookedly.

Pete scowled and set his drink down on the table. "Damn you, you crazy bastard,"

Then Maverick turned his body and, quick as a flash, pressed his lips to Tom's. At first, Ice froze until he realized, _holygodPeteiskissingmeandthisisnotadream_, he pulled the smaller pilot onto his lap and kissed him back. Maverick flicked his tongue forward in question and Ice answered, opening his mouth and deepening the kiss. Tom's hands worked their way to the hem of Pete's shirt and crept up the smooth planes of his back, gently grazing with his fingernails. That elicited a throaty groan from Maverick and the pilot's arms rose to his neck, entangling in his frosted blonde hair. Pete's fingers curled, anchoring him there as they pushed against each other, panting and whispering and moaning, low and quiet as if anyone could hear. Ice fisted his hands in Maverick's shirt and brought it over his head, breaking the kiss only long enough to remove his own shirt as well.

Instead of going right back at it again, they sat there for a moment. Pete fiddled with the hair at the nape of Ice's neck, and Tom took Pete's face gently, as if he might break, and kissed him again. This time the kiss more careful, as if they had realized that this (whatever it was) was better taken at a slower pace. Pete began to lie back on the couch and Ice gladly followed, arms bracing his weight over the smaller pilot.

* * *

A couple of miles away, a newscast was starting off with the meteorologist announcing jovially, _"It's going to be a hot one tonight, folks!"_

If he only knew how right he was.

* * *

**A/N**: **Massive woot, new story. I really enjoyed writing Goose, what a card. **

**As always, I appreciate feedback SO EVERLOVING MUCH. 3  
**


End file.
